


Inklings of kinship

by kim_onka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousins, Familiar support, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 22:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11976327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim_onka/pseuds/kim_onka
Summary: The first time you meet your cousin Celebrimbor, you only exchange a handful of words, and you are uncertain what your impression of him is. // Finduilas arrives in Nargothond and deals with settling in  - and with her Fëanorian cousin. Featuring Finrod. Also featuring The Nargothrond Drama.





	Inklings of kinship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



The first time you meet your cousin Celebrimbor, you only exchange a handful of words, and you are uncertain what your impression of him is.

You have only arrived in Nargothrond, fleeing the destruction of Minas Tirith; your father’s remaining people are welcomed warmly by King Finrod in his vast stone halls, and while Orodreth’s heart is heavy with the loss of the stronghold entrusted to him, the king’s countenance does not betray any signs of reproach.

“You fared well,” he proclaims, “two years after Dragor Bragollach you retained it, and defended it valiantly.” Your father appears heartened by the praise; you certainly are. Then Finrod smiles and adds that two of their Fëanorian cousins lost their lands in the battle itself and have been in Nargothrond since. If proud Fëanorians sought shelter within his realm, his closest kin ought to have no qualms in this matter.

(A shadow passes your father’s face and swiftly disappears.)

“The Kingdom of Nargothrond,” the King is now speaking directly to you, “welcomes its Princess with joy, however dire the circumstances that brought her here.”

He offers you his arm and leads you to the Fëanorians.

(You miss the days when Finrod would lift you in his arms and spin you around, laughing.)

You have known about their retreat to Nargothond, of course, and you have been slightly anxious about the prospect of meeting them. Now, when you have been forced to follow in their steps, pursued by Orcs, you are even less prepared for finally making the acquaintance of the cousins you have heard so much about.

(You father always speaks of them with reserve and restraint, as if not wanting to say too much; you sense he is wary, and not fond of them.)

(You attempt to banish the thought from your mind.)

The lords Celegorm and Curufin greet you courteously, if briefly. There is a manner about them, you notice, that is that of hosts – as if they are welcoming you in Nargothrond on equal foot with Finrod. You find it jarring, though you do not show it.

(Their eyes burn with an intensity you have not encountered before.)

(Finrod has welcomed you as the princess of Nargothrond, you remind yourself, and you raise your head high.)

(Yet uneasiness persists.)

The lord Celebrimbor, in contrast, grants you his full attention – which takes you unprepared and for a moment you almost wish he did not. None the less, you return his gaze and give him your hand; he greets you with all courtesy and warmth.

(You realise, with a pang of shame, that Celebrimbor was not on your mind when you thought of Fëanorians.)

(It occurs to you to wonder if he may have similarly excluded you.)

“I am glad to meet you at last, cousin,” he says. “It grieves me to hear of your plight, and I hope you find rest here.”

You search his face for signs of the same demeanour you saw in his father and uncle, but only sincerity is visible.

You thank him.

“Our meeting gladdens me, likewise,” you say, still looking up at him. Celebrimbor is very tall, much taller than you; his eyes are dark, with a fiery gleam; his hair, so black it seems it should leave stains of soot on his clothes, is made into simple braids across his scalp and down his neck, but a few loose strands fall about his face. The Star emblem shines on his forehead. You struggle for something to add. “I have heard much of your skill in craft, and have no doubt I will find Nargothrond enriched by its fruits.”

This time it is your cousin who thanks you, visibly pleased; as you watch him, for a split second you perceive kinship between you two, a flash of insight telling you that in some manner you cannot discern, as you stand here, you are alike.

The moment passes, and you blink once, astounded, ignoring his curious gaze

(Suddenly you remember he was born in Valinor before its Darkening, like your father; his eyes betray him, and they betray his heritage as well, for they burn with the same intensity you have seen in his father and uncle.)

* * *

Days pass without you two speaking, save for a few greetings. Celebrimbor ever has the manner of one rushing to a place where he needs to be urgently, and while the sight of him brings back the flash of connection, you do not pursue the notion.

(Celegorm and Curufin, meanwhile, you have not spoke to at all since your first introduction.)

In truth, you spare him little thought in the subsequent days – accustoming yourself to the life in Nargothrond occupies most of your attention, and the company you seek above all is Finrod’s.

You have always loved Finrod, radiant and amiable as he is, and you are happy to be around him, even if, as king, he has little time for you.

(When he does give you his attention, you feel like an elfling, and sometimes you think he does as well; his presence relieves you of worries.)

One evening, you slide into his study and watch him work; he does not react, but you see the corner of his mouth rise a little. You indulge yourself in observing him: the noble line of his face, his hair a shade of gold several tones darker than your own, lusher; his straight back, the elegant motion of his hand.

When you were an elfling, he used to tell you about the animals and plants he encountered on his journeys, and draw you pictures in colourful ink. Watching him paint is something you have always adored: leaves that seemed to rustle, flowers that unfolded under his brush, animals that looked ready to jump out of the parchment, all formed by a few accurate lines skilfully drawn by his long fingers

(Most of the pictures he had drawn for you were lost, yet several you managed to save.)

(Now you bring him your own.)

At last Finrod puts the papers aside and focuses his attention on you. You do not avert your eyes; it would be impossible to pretend you were not staring, and there is no need to.

You curtsey.

“Good evening, young lady,” he says amiably. “Will you walk with me?”

(He would also take you on long walks through the forest and rides on the planes, in less tremulous times.)

“Tell me, Finduilas,” he inquires later, when you are walking under starlight, “how do you find your cousins?”

“We have not spoken extensively,” you answer truthfully.

“I do hope,” he says, “that your attitude has not been clouded by matters you know to have been long forgiven.”

You look at him in surprise; but in truth, there is no need for surprise. Finrod is aware you recognise how delicate the issue can be, and he knows even better than you what your father’s heart conceals.

(You reflect, not for the first time, that the forgiveness is much more earnest on Finrod’s part.)

“I kept these matters out of my mind when I spoke with them; and yet I admit I perceived unease. Their manner was most polite, and yet...”

“Intimidating?”

You nod, abashed.

“They can have that effect,” he tells you gently. “But you are Finduilas of the House of Finarfin, and you need not intimidated.”

You nod again, more resolutely.

(It has always been Finrod who managed to inspire you to pride in your House.)

“I will not,” you promise.

(You think back to the moment of kinship with Celebrimbor, and Finrod smiles at you.)

* * *

The next time you see your cousin Celebrimbor, he does not notice you – he is engrossed in work, sketching and noting while seated on a sill. You approach him, stopping a few steps away from him, surprised to see the continued lack of reaction on his part – you are beginning to have second thoughts about disturbing him, but first you lean over slightly, trying to see what he is doing, and in that moment he finally registers your presence and looks up at you.

“Lady Finduilas,” he greets you..

“Lord Celebrimbor,” you return. “How fare you?”

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, you inquire about the task occupying him. Celebrimbor shows you detailed sketches of a plant.

“Nargothrond is fair indeed,” he tells you, “and a testament to how will and craft may make use of the world’s gifts. If we can hew cities in stones, why not capture the grace of a flower in gold or silver? It is but the other side of the same thing.”

“’Tis so,” you says. “I should love to see it.”

“If it please you, lady,” he says, smiling at you. “Have you found yourself at home yet?”

You spend the remainder of the day talking, and while you do not solve the mystery of the sensation of familiarity, at the end of it you find a different kind of familiarity – the simple, gradually build familiarity of developing friendship.

(You do not feel at all intimidated by his burning eyes.)

* * *

 A week later he presents you with a golden brooch, shaped artfully into the form of a flower, adorned with several sparkling gems. The mastery of the work takes your breath away, and you express your praise extensively.

(Celebrimbor compliments your paintings for their airy elegance, which overjoys you.)

A habit forms between the two of you of walking together through the vast and beautiful corridors of stone, whose walls sparkle in the blue light of Fëanorian lamps. He tells you of his life in the Blessed Realm, his eyes shining with the lost light of the Trees, and of his long journey.

(Never of the ships, and you do not press him.)

You tell him of your childhood and your few adventures, and of your dreams.

(Finrod does not comment on your new friendship, but looks at your brooch with contentment.)

(You are at peace, and so years pass.)

* * *

There comes a day when everything changes, and rapidly. The King departs with only a few to accompany him, your father is appointed regent, and before your eyes the pretence of friendship from your Fëanorian cousins falls into pieces.

You fear for Finrod, and for your father too: you can see he does not hold the hearts of the people. Uneasiness creeps into your heart anew, in this realm that rejects you and yours.

(You remember Finrod’s words and wear your House colours and sigil every day; you are the Princess of Nargothrond, and this is your armour.)

(You try very hard not to inconsequential.)

One of these days you meet Celebrimbor, and it occurs to you it has been a while since you last saw him. You hesitate upon seeing him; you notice that he, too, wears his House colours, and for a moment you feel betrayed.

(You are not sure what you expected of him.)

(You are not sure what you can expect of him now.)

(Finrod would not want you to reject him.)

“Cousin!” you call, hastening your steps. “Lord Celebrimbor! Do not avoid me, cousin.”

It is now he who hesitates before facing you, his eyes wary.

“Princess Finduilas,” he acknowledges you. His eyes wander towards the collar of your dress, adorned with his brooch.

“I have not seen you recently.”

“I presumed my company would not be welcome,” he answers tightly.

You realise that standing before you fills him with guilt, and you are moved.

“There is weight upon your heart,” you say. The words hang between the two of you, seemingly needlessly forward. It could be said there was weight upon the hearts of all citizens of Nargothrond, yet you are not sure whether that is true; it could be understood you did not expect him to be concerned, yet you are nearly certain that is false.

His dark, burning eyes rest on your face.

“Not as great as on your father’s, or yours, Princess.”

You incline your head in acknowledgement.

(You wish this did not have to come between you, yet you are unsure how to express the desire; is it even possible?)

(You bear your sigil and feel shunned in the realm of your House; what does he feel, bearing the Star with all that signifies?)

(You are each of you trapped, carried by events set in motion by your elders, yet you stand with yours, on separate sides of the divide.)

Understanding blooms.

“I appreciate your consideration,” you say carefully. “Yet I have missed your company.”

You extend your hand, and Celebrimbor takes it gratefully, with palpable relief. The silence between you is no longer strained, and you allow it to shelter you for a moment.

“I fear for King Finrod,” you say at length.

“So do I,” he admits quietly.

You refrain from saying what you are both aware of: that it was his father and uncle who deprived Finrod of support and forced him to go nearly alone. You do not ask him about it.

You do not ask anything of him.

(Despite everything, you are comforted to have found the kinship between you two.)

* * *

From then on, you meet every day: you find a place where no one can see you and sit there, holding hands. Your words are scarce these days, as are matters you might wish to discuss.

When the news arrives that Finrod is dead, Celebrimbor holds you while you cry.

(He is not wearing his House sigil.)

* * *

You do not see him again for a time after that – not after you witness him refuse to follow his father, banished by your father, now truly a king.

(Your heart goes out to him, even as you burn with anger at the crimes of the Fëanorians; you have understood the burden he bears.)

Life in Nargothrond slowly settles into its tracks, and you still do not see him.

Thus one day you gather your skirts and storm to where you know his workshop to be, in a very un-princess-like manner, and thump your fist on the door.

(You are wearing your royal finery and it occurs to you that you might look rather unusual, but you ignore it.)

“Celebrimbor!” you call. “Cousin!”

Silence.

“Open the door, cousin! I have a task for you!”

Nothing.

“I command you! Do not dare lock me out,” you add, more quietly.

There is a rustle on the other side, and Celebrimbor appears in the doorway. He looks dishevelled and weary, there are black circles under his eyes. Only the eyes themselves still burn with the familiar intensity.

You are prepared to push your way past him, but he steps back without a word, letting you inside.

You have never been in his workshop before, but you pay it little mind; you regard him challengingly as he closes the door and turns to face you.

“Princess Finduilas,” he greets you, the way he always does. “What task do you have for me?”

You offer him, on the palm of your hand, a broken pair of golden earrings. “I would ask you to repair these, if it is not beneath the masterful craftsman, Lord Celebrimbor. I would also ask you to leave the workshop occasionally, for I grow lonely without my cousin to entertain me.”

Celebrimbor stares at you intensely for a moment, then gives a brief laugh that brings a relieved smile to your lips.

(You stomped on the earrings this morning, and you wonder if he has guessed.)

“As you command, Princess,” he says.

(You need not say any more, and you are glad.)


End file.
